


Affluenza

by Louvelvet



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: A LOT of Angst, Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Boarding School, Angst, Because how could he not?, Boarding School, Coming Out, Denial of Feelings, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Fluff, Grief/Mourning, Harry has some extreme daddy issues, Hate to Love, Homophobia, Humour, Jealousy, Louis loves teasing Harry, M/M, Murder Mystery, Mutual Pining, Mutual hate tbh, Oh and Louis calls Harry pet names, Past Child Abuse, Protective Louis Tomlinson, References to Drugs, Rival Families, Sad Harry Styles, Sassy Louis, Secret Relationship, Shy Harry, Slow Burn, Slurs, Touch-Starved Harry Styles, a bit too much, god there's a lot here, they all have more money than they know what to do with
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-12 03:33:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29378559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Louvelvet/pseuds/Louvelvet
Summary: Styles & Co. and Tomlinson River have been rivals in business ever since the 1820's.When the sudden death of Desmond and Eric Styles puts an irrevocable strain on Harry's family, they move across the country for a new beginning. Walking through the grand gates of his new school, the seventeen-year-old boy only has two things in mind; maintain excellent grades in order to get into Oxford university and follow in the footsteps of his father, and stay far away from anyone named Tomlinson.Things don't necessarily go to plan.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Comments: 8
Kudos: 19





	Affluenza

**Author's Note:**

> Sooo i've been toying with the idea of this story for months now and it feels amazing to finally start writing it. First things first I wanted to put a trigger warning for mentions of physical and physiological abuse as well as childhood/adolescent trauma. I also considered putting an archive warning for graphic depictions of violence but I am honestly not sure what 'graphic' entails. Regardless, this is a heads up now, so please read at your own risk!
> 
> I also want to clarify that the characters in this fic, especially Harry and Louis' families, bare no similarity to those individuals in real life. In fact, the only thing that connects a lot of these characters to their real person are the names. This story is purely fictional and in NO WAY does it reflect on the individuals it is based on. 
> 
> Lastly, before we get properly stared I have to say a massive thank you steph for helping me throughout my endless mental breakdowns and late night rants while planning this entire thing. You have put up with way too much of me and I am endlessly grateful for everything. <3
> 
> Find me on tumblr: @finefuckinwalls  
> This is going to be a roller coaster, apologies in advance!
> 
> Love, Lara🖤

His watch had always moved at double the speed of Harry’s, swift hands gliding through never ending numbers. Harry always wished he could steal his brother’s watch, take the gold encrusted bracelet from his wrist and secure it around his own forever. He used to believe that people were more permanent than possessions, offering the companionship and joy that a gold embedded watch never could. He used to believe in a lot of things, a lot has changed, he supposes. 

The faint echo of what Harry assumes is a bible passage filters through his head and he stays standing in silence, feet nailed to the ground. His body goes rigid against the cutting air as he recalls a smaller version of himself; He’d been struggling with his algebra homework and it was too late for the help of his tutor. He remained frozen in his chair as the presence of the man next to him burned through his veins like hot liquor, the tumultuous gusts of wind that slashed the window panes and the pitter-patter of rain colliding with the concrete slates outside. He can't remember the man's words in that moment but he knows they were there, always there. The screams still linger now.

Perhaps the man only served to help him, just as Eric had said, but Harry remembers. He remembers thick, stern, eyebrows accompanied by words that cut his skin deeper than the glass ever did. He remembers wretched screams and muffled cries being ripped from a little voice that belonged to him. He remembers looking into his broken mirror, shards of glass scattered beneath his toes, the reflection mocking him, his milky white skin tainted with red and purple. He remembers wearing turtlenecks in the summer.

Failing to have all his work finished in the day, as much as he tried, the nights had become a blur of glassy eyes and trembling hands that poured out crooked letters onto the lined paper in rich, black ink. The letters really meant nothing to Harry. He wanted to understand them in the beginning but when he lifted his head and peered into hard eyes that shot fear into his own, he only wanted to be good. But Harry was never good with numbers.

The first time he told himself to never ask for help on his homework again doesn’t feel like seven years ago. The first time his friend’s took notice of just how bad it had gotten doesn’t feel like one year ago.

He is back there now, perched atop the steps in his school’s courtyard as he watched the midday sun warm his friend’s faces. They lifted their heads back as smoke clouds fleeted from their mouths into the dry, humid air. 

“Looks like Harry’s been having some company over the weekends.” One of the boys, Alex, sniggered through crooked teeth, turning to wink in Harry’s direction.

Harry only blinked back in reply, not knowing what he meant. 

“You don’t say mate?” another head snapped in the direction of Harry, the boy gestured to his neck, giggling, “C’mon Hazza. We’ve ignored this for a while now, been waiting for you to tell us yourself, yeah? Now clearly that’s not happening, so the lucky bird?” 

Harry’s eyes widened under the realisation of what they had been insinuating, he felt as if he’d been stabbed in the stomach. He knew his clothing decision was a little odd for the warm weather but preparing any logical excuse wasn’t at the top of the list of his concerns. 

“My money’s on Diana.” 

“Diana? You’re kidding mate.” 

“Kidding? The bitch would shag a tree if she could.” 

Diana? Harry tried to match a face to the name, but nothing came to mind. She might have been in his history class? Who knows. 

"I just don’t see why you’re hiding them lad. Nothing to be ashamed of! Was wondering when you’d stop being such a frigid.” Harry’s back straightened when a sweaty arm wrapped around his shoulders. 

He knew this type of behaviour was expected from a sixteen-year-old boy, but it was truly laughable - and he probably would’ve laughed if the only thing playing through his head wasn’t the image of his father’s burly hands, fingers wrapped tightly around his neck, restricting his airways and holding him up like a rag doll.

“Aw our little Haz, always so modest.” That elicited a laugh from the group and Harry had decided to stop listening. He vaguely remembers agreeing with what they had said. He figured, if anything, it was a good get out. Later, he didn’t have much trouble matching Diana’s name to her face, he knew because she wouldn’t speak to him for the rest of the year. 

Now, he watches as the wooden coffins are gently lowered into the ground, carrying the bodies of two people who made a mark on his life forever, sleeping in the dust. He can’t quite comprehend how they are gone now, the tyrant who haunted him in broad daylight, and his best friend. 

“Harold, darling, would you like to say a few words?” his mother’s wobbly voice startles him out of his daze, he forgot that he was expected to speak. He forgot he even had a speech written at all until mother’s dainty hands are clasping around his own, nimble fingers slipping him a crumpled piece of paper. Harry grips onto her tightly, taking what he can get in the small act of comfort. He knows that a hug would be inappropriate and he doesn’t want to make his mother uncomfortable.

Ever since the accident, when Harry looked into his mother’s eyes, for the first time ever he had felt safe, warm and somewhat understood. He saw the person that he wished could’ve been there for him before. He longed for this version of his mother when he could actually feel the weight of her words, understand her love. Why couldn’t she love him for no other reason than the fact that he was her son? – _is_ her son. 

The delicate notes of piano keys flutter through the autumn air and Harry inhales, staring into her emerald irises, a perfect mirror of his own. All he wants is to wrap his arms around her thin frame and hide into the crook of her shoulder. He doesn’t. 

“Harry" She turns her head slightly as she looks at her son. "You will speak won’t you honey? Like we talked about before?”

If Eric were here right now Harry would hug him. Harry could always hug Eric. 

“For goodness sake Harry listen to me for once in your life.” Her eyes bore into his, filled with desperation. The look she gives him is far more gentle than his father's but it makes him feel all the same; guilty.

“Yeah. No yeah I- i’m sorry. I‘ll speak.”

Hesitantly, he steps behind the podium. He thinks it’s best to start with the worst so he begins his speech on the ‘extraordinary businessman that was Desmond Styles’ who also, so conveniently, happened to be his father. 

He makes sure to construct his face into something resembling sorrow – he thinks he’s nailed it by now, having practised in the mirror for almost a week. Every once in a while, when reciting an anecdote in front of him, something that’s supposed to sound warm and heartfelt (something his mother made up on the spot, no doubt) he smiles. It’s a plastic smile, paired with empty eyes. He hopes he doesn’t resemble his father. 

After his speech – or his mother’s speech, rather, they move indoors and Harry finds himself clinging to his mother’s side like a lost puppy. She tells him to flesh out and talk to more people, but Harry has little interest in hearing “my condolences” from twenty versions of the same man, forceful frowns plastered over their faces in attempt to imitate something akin to sadness. He then realises they’re no different from himself. 

He doesn’t talk to many other people, particularly the “stumpy man with the glasses” although this could’ve been anyone – everyone looks the same. 

Later, he recognises the name as ‘Mr. Tomlinson’ when it falls from his mother’s red lips, she says it like it causes her physical pain. He’ll never understand why his family had always hated that man, that family. Frankly, he doesn’t understand much about the world of business despite the technicalities being nailed into his head from such a young age. Younger than necessary. 

His feet carry him slightly astray from the support group that circles his mother and his grandparents, eyes drifting over to the other side of the venue.

Standing next to one of the marble pillars eliciting an obnoxious belly laugh is a stumpy, middle-aged man, silver rimmed glasses framing his beryl blue eyes, brown eyebrows tinted grey. He is noticeably smaller than the other two men that stand at his side but holds himself in a way that contradicts the fact. 

Harry looks between them; you would think this were some sort of party if it weren’t for the pleasant view of headstones through the window behind them. 

He moves his stare away from the two larger men, back to the eyes of glasses-man. He finds them narrowed in his very direction and immediately stiffens with embarrassment. The man had caught Harry scrutinising his friends, scrutinising him. Harry is still looking back at him. Not really knowing what to do, he attempts a weak smile, just an upward tug of the lips, hopefully making it clear to the man that he means no harm. The man only responds by continuing to study harry with his icy glare before giving a curt nod and turning away. 

Mr. Tomlinson. It must be. 

Harry's pretty sure he could barely form a cohesive sentence the last time he saw this man. Still, he feels like he’s got the right person. 

He doesn’t even know why the man would be here if their fathers were rivals in business, he only knows that he’s supposed to hate him and to be honest, he’s completely okay with that – a perfect excuse to socialise less. Because if he has to make small talk with one more sour faced old man about how the sudden death of Des Styles affected the stock market, he’s going to slam his head through a car door (preferably his mother’s range rover).

He ends up outside again, wandering down the cobblestone footpath. Transfixed in his own thoughts, scanning the names of those who came before him. He wonders how many people showed up to their funerals, he wonders how many people care that they are gone.

He wants to know these things that shouldn’t matter, continue dragging his feet forward, away from the graves of his family. He wants to be away from everything, being swallowed up by the gravel beneath his feet right now doesn’t sound so terrible.

Is Eric at peace now? He doesn’t want an answer, but he knows he misses the heavy weight of his own sadness. It was comforting and safe, like a hug. Harry _really_ wants to be hugged again.

Letters carved into one of the headstones read _‘In loving memory of Florence Wright, beautiful wife and beloved mother of 4. You are gone but never forgotten. Always in our hearts.’_

Did Florence hug and cherish her children for no other reason than the fact that they were hers? Scolding himself for the sharp pang of jealousy that spikes his skin, he hopes so. 

He isn’t happy for his father’s passing, but he isn’t mournful either. All he longs for is to be held by his brother’s arms, to feel loved, wanted, protected.

He fiddles with the bracelet that covers his wrist now, gold embellishments flickering under the sun. He turns the crown that rests over the shiny bezel and watches the hands move anti-clockwise through the numbers and wishes he had the power to time travel. He wants to reverse the clock and ask his brother if he was truly happy or if he were as unhappy as himself. He wants to thank him for everything he is – everything he _was_. He wants to see his soft eyes and warm smile one more time and tell him goodbye.

Harry thinks of his father and hates himself for not feeling anything at all.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading lovelies! This is just a prologue so I can promise that the chapters to come will be far longer. 
> 
> I am not necessarily an experienced writer so I can only hope that this isn’t complete shit show. I’m open to criticism. 
> 
> [Also I made a little playlist for this fic and you can listen here :)](https://open.spotify.com/user/314bcnsvb6dicfr6mm7nzfusy7ri/playlist/3YrgcdDfN7dKs3F97qJxFG?si=63pSxtdERZGXMJISKk2ttA)


End file.
